


Certain Obscure Things

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:50:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's been receiving mysterious love poems.</p><p>Coffeeshop AU where Sam is a barista and Cas is a regular customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Obscure Things

**Author's Note:**

> For breathforall on Tumblr, who prompted both Cas wooing Sam with poetry and a Sastiel coffeeshop AU. I combined the ideas and got this.
> 
> Title from Pablo Neruda's "One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII"

**Day 3:**

            “Sam! You’ve got another one!”

            Sam quickly finished rinsing the tumblers and dried of his hands, taking the slip of paper that Becky was holding out for him. He must have come off as eager because Becky chastised, “Don’t snatch!” and smacked him as if punishing a dog. He didn’t bother apologising, too busy unfolding the paper, half-knowing what he’d find inside.

_He walks in beauty, like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that’s best of dark and bright_

_Meet in his aspect and his eyes;_

_Thus mellowed to that tender light_

_Which heaven to gaudy day denies._

_One shade the more, one ray the less,_

_Had half impaired the nameless grace_

_Which waves in every raven tress,_

_Or softly lightens o’er his face;_

_Where thoughts serenely sweet express,_

_How pure, how dear their dwelling-place._

_And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,_

_So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

_The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

_But tell of days in goodness spent,_

_A mind at peace with all below,_

_A heart whose love is innocent!_

            “What is it this time?” Becky asked, trying and failing to peer over Sam’s shoulder. “Is it Shakespeare? Please tell me it’s Shakespeare.”

            “You just want it to be a poet you recognise,” Sam laughed, handing her the poem. “It’s Byron.”

            Becky skimmed the poem as Sam tried to ignore her and focus on his job. He failed, knowing that in a few moments she would be all over him about this.

            Sure enough, he had just finished refilling the sugar dispensers when he heard her croon, “ _Awwww_ , she thinks you’re pretty.”

            “Shut up.”

            “An idea who your mystery admirer is?”

            “You know I don’t.”

            “No idea whatsoever?”

            Sam stopped and turned to face Becky, who was looking just a bit too innocent. “Why? Do you know something?”

            “Only as much as you do. Swear to God.”

            “You’re not Christian.”

            “Swear to the God that may or may not exist.”

            She wasn’t very convincing, but it was already three minutes past opening time. So he let her go, for now, in order to unlock the front doors.

 

 

 

**Day 4:**

_Come when the nights are bright with stars_

_Or come when the moon is mellow;_

_Come when the sun his golden bars_

_Drops on the hay-field yellow._

_Come in the twilight soft and grey,_

_Come in the night or come in the day,_

_Come, O love, whene’er you may,_

_And you are welcome, welcome._

_You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,_

_You are soft as the nesting dove._

_Come to my heart and bring it to rest_

_As the bird flies home to its welcome nest._

_Come when my heart is full of grief_

_Or when my heart is merry;_

_Come with the falling of the leaf_

_Or with the redd’ning cherry._

_Come when the year’s first blossom blows,_

_Come when the summer gleams and glows,_

_Come with the winter’s drifting snows,_

_And you are welcome, welcome._

((“Is it Shakespeare now?”))

((“No, it’s Donne.”))

((“What’s done?”))

 

The coffee shop was small, but it was homey. There were a few regular customers who came in on a weekly or daily basis; a few newcomers who either became regulars or never set foot in the establishment again; the booths in the back were occupied by young, touchy lovers at any given time while the tables at the other end were typically where stressed university students camped; coffee was half priced for seniors, teachers, service members such as firemen, and during finals week; there was a wall of shelves dedicated to the music of local talent; every Wednesday was Open Mic Night; and the semi-annual slam poetry competition was always hosted there. It was run by the Warren family, more specifically Rebecca’s grandmother and trans* great aunt/uncle/pibling (the coffee shop was a very accepting place) which was the only reason Becky, as a college student was allowed to work there. The only reason Sam got the job was because Becky had explained his familial situation to her grandmother and great pibling. They had insisted; he hadn’t applied. Regardless, he loved his job and the people he worked with. He got along wonderfully with Becky and her family and knew all of the regulars by name and how often they came and what they usually ordered.

            Admittedly, there were a few he was on a first-name basis with.

            Like Jess, the cute, happy-go-lucky art major who was crazy smart and wise and lived in his dorm.

            And Brady, her friend who may or may not be gay but either way he was very . . . flamboyant. Irritating at times and very much an extrovert, but a good person at heart.

            And then there was Castiel. Castiel was an enigma and a half. He didn’t talk much and never made eye contact. When he did speak, everything he said was very straight forward, no small talk or polite conversation to be heard of. There was no reason that Sam should be so intrigued by him, and yet he was. He came in loaded with books and handwritten notes every weekday morning and Thurday and Friday nights. Sometimes he came on Wednesdays as an audience, although he never took the stage himself, and as finals got closer, he showed up more nights and stayed longer. The most personal thing that Castiel had ever told Sam was his name and that most days he was “well.” Not “good,” as most people claimed when asked how they were, but “well,” the grammatically correct answer. That in and of itself made Sam want to know more about Castiel. The thing was, he seemed like a very secretive person, and too much conversation would drive him off. He had to be sneaky about it.

Tuesday, Sam peered over Castiel’s shoulder subtly as he refilled his coffee for the third time that night. The notes were meticulously organised, the handwriting beautiful and calligraphic but nearly illegible in its intricacy. The books were highlighted with neat straight lines and colour coded apparently by subject. Among them were a couple course-specific books, but also literature such as _Paradise Lost_ and a _His Dark Materials_ omnibus.

            “You should take a break, Castiel,” he suggested. “You’ve been at it for hours.”

            “I don’t have time for a break.”

            “Okay, but if you keep going like this, you’re not going to retain anything.” He knew from experience (namely studying straight through the night). All it did for Sam was make him late for his first final.

            “This way of studying has always worked well for me.”

            “It’s not very efficient.”

            “Well, what method would you suggest, then?” Castiel asked it softly, as if half hoping Sam wouldn’t hear. It struck Sam just then that they were actually having a conversation. Like – an actual give-and-take _conversation_. Castiel never spoke more than a handful of words at a time, and had never, as long as Sam had been working at the coffee shop, asked him a question. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be sneaky after all.

            “Well,” he started, slightly stunned. “Every twenty minutes I take a five minute break, and every third break is twenty minutes long. I start early so I can finish early and spend about half an hour just relaxing before bed.”

            “And taking all those breaks is more efficient?”

            Sam shrugged. “Actually, yeah. You don’t retain information when you’re stressed as well as you do when you’re relaxed. So yeah, breaks help.”

            “And what do you do with that time?”

            “Oh, y’know, for the small breaks I usually just read music or listen to poetry . . . “ Sam closed his eyes and laughed in embarrassment. “I think I meant ‘listen to music and read poetry.’ Although,” he added, desperately trying to make up for his mistake. “If you’re studying for a literature class, I wouldn’t suggest reading. Try something less visual. All this _is_ for a literature class, right?”

            “Of course.”

            “What class teaches Milton and Pullman in the same unit?”

            “A class that teaches the ideals of good and evil in Eastern and Western cultures.”

            Sam let out a low whistle. He was enrolled in some pretty complicated classes, but that sounded like a train wreck. Putting a melting pot of students in a lecture about a controversial topic? No, thank you.

            “That’s heavy. Is it for your major?”

            “One of them, yes.”

            “You’re double majoring?”

            “Of course,” Castiel replied, as if it was obvious.

            “In what? If you don’t mind me asking.”

            “Not at all. Religion and philosophy.”

            Neither of which was English or literature or, hell, even history.  But Castiel seemed like an intelligent person, and it was still possible that maybe Castiel was the one who had been sending him the poems, despite his bashfulness.

            Unfortunately, after that exchange, the conversation lagged horribly, and Sam would be lying if he said it wasn’t awkward.

            “Well,” he began uncomfortably. “I’d guess it’s been about five minutes. Do you want me to set a timer?”

He said it half jokingly, but Castiel seemed to actually consider the proposal for a moment before replying, “No, thank you,” and immediately returning to his notes. Sam lingered for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself, before fleeing behind the counter.

 

**Day 5:**

_I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,_

_or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:_

_I love you as one loves certain obscure things,_

_secretly, between the shadow and the soul._

_I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries_

_the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,_

_and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose_

_from the earth lives dimly in my body._

_I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,_

_I love you directly without problems or pride:_

_I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,_

_except in this form in which I am not nor are you,_

_so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,_

_so close that your eyes close with my dreams._

((“Aww, this one’s cute.”))

((“Yeah . . . “))

((“You should frame it.”))

((“Shut up.”))

 

 

Castiel showed up on Wednesday for Open Mic Night, but he had also brought a notebook with him, so chances were he was there to work and not watch. As much as Sam wanted to, he didn't sneak a peek at the contents of the notebook. Something about the way Castiel held it close to himself at all times told Sam that it was a personal thing, and he knew better than to invade someone's journal or sketchbook without their permission. Still, he gravitated towards Castiel more than any of the other customers. It wasn't suspicious, as he usually hovered at the back of the audience seating anyway. It just so happened that Castiel was sitting there too.

When there was a break between performances, Sam applauded politely and shuffled a little closer to where Castiel sat. He was hoping to strike up another conversation, although he felt as if their last one might have been a special occurrence.

"Hi, Castiel," he greeted, throwing caution to the wind. Castiel glanced upwards but refrained from making direct eye contact, as per usual.

"Hello, Sam. How are you?"

Sam smiled. Another question, and the first one of the conversation at that. They were making progress.

"I'm well, thanks," he responded, hoping Castiel picked up on his grammar. If he did, he didn't say anything. "How are you?"

"I could be better, but overall, I am well. Thank you for asking."

He wanted to ask Castiel what was wrong, but he didn't want to pry lest he push him away. But Sam didn't want to just blow Castiel off either, as he had willingly divulged personal, if vague, information. Sam tripped over his words for a few moments before giving up and settling with "Oh, uh, that's good. I mean, that you're doing well, not that -- I mean -- " Shit. He would have thrown in the towel altogether, but unless he was mistaken, Castiel was smirking in his general direction. That was the most expressive Sam had ever seen him, and it gave him slim but firm hope that he wasn't losing Castiel completely with his idiocy.

"Anyway," he continued, shooting for smooth and missing the board completely. "Are you performing tonight?"

"Not a chance" was Castiel's immediate answer.

"Not much of a writer?"

"Not much of a performer."

The next in a long string of guitarists began playing, effectively cutting off the conversation for a solid three minutes.

"But you write?" Sam pressed when the song had ended.

"A little," Castiel admitted as if he were confessing his most embarrassing secret. "I prefer to read. The inspiration to write doesn't strike very often."

"Ah. So you're a poet, then."

Castiel gave him a questioning look but couldn't follow it up with a question until the string quartet currently occupying the stage had finished their rendition of some pop song or another.

"Generally, yes. How did you know?"

Sam smirked. This was good information; it was looking more and more like Castiel was his secret admirer, although he was still finding it difficult to believe himself.

"Poets write when inspired," he replied. "Authors write all the time or they'd never finish anything."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"Maybe. I don't really write anymore."

"Why not?"

Sam was thankful for a few moments to consider his answer as Becky's brother took the stage to announce that the stage was closing for the night. "I don't have time," he replied, deciding the simplest answer was the best for now. "I'm a pre-law student with a full time job. Don't have much time for anything."

Castiel didn't respond with anything more than a hum of assent. The silence was strange but not nearly as awkward as the last time, probably mostly due to the bustle of people around them as they left the coffeehouse. Castiel didn't make a move to leave, spacing out with his eyes resting on the stage. Sam thought he would very much like to see Castiel up there reciting poetry or . . . he wondered if Castiel played an instrument. He always seemed so tense and out of place -- a fish out of water, a three-dimensional person in a two-dimensional world, or (Sam thought, the idea clicking into place wonderfully) more like Castiel was suffering from perpetual culture shock. He was obviously very shy, but sometimes the shiest people are the best performers. Sam wondered if Cas would be in his element in the spotlight, his voice resonating perfectly with words that were not his own but that could express himself more than he ever could. Or if he would shake and stumble over his words and forget how to use the medieval formal "you."

Or maybe he wasn't so much of a solo performer than a support system. Maybe he preferred to be the nameless instrumentalist in the background.

Everyone who wasn't staff had already cleared the coffeeshop when Sam came back to his mind. It was late, and he really needed to clean up here and get back to his apartment.

He stood and the scraping of the chair's legs against the wood brought Castiel out of his own train of thought.

Sam smiled apologetically. "You don't have to leave if you don't want to, but I'm going to finish up here. I'll see you tomorrow, Castiel."

"You can call me 'Cas,'" he told the floorboards.

Sam nodded and tried not to look too ecstatic. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, Cas."

 

 

**Day 10:**

_I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair._  
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.  
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day  
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

 _I hunger for your sleek laugh,_  
your hands the color of a savage harvest,  
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,  
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

 _I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,_  
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,  
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,  
and I pace around hungry, sniffling the twilight,  
hunting for you, for your hot heart,  
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratúe.

            “Jesus, _another_ one?” Becky sighed. “You haven’t figured out who it is yet?”

            “I thought I had,” Sam replied, slipping the poem into his back pocket and probably wearing a stupid, lovey-dovey expression. “But it’s looking more and more like I was wrong. The person I thought it was is really shy.”

            “Maybe that’s why she’s sending you these stupid poems instead of asking you out to your face."

"I just don't think that someone so introverted would do something like this to begin with. Any anyway, we don't really know each other at all."

"That doesn't really matter. Maybe he wanted to get to know you anyway."

"Maybe," Sam agreed doubtfully. "I don't . . . wait a second, did you just say 'he'?"

Becky looked surprised in a majorly guilty way, turning away but not quickly enough. Sam caught her by the shoulder and made her look at him.

"You do know who it is, don't you!" he demanded.

Becky sighed and banged her head on his shoulder. "Yeah, I do. But I didn't know the whole time, I swear! My aunt just let me know last night because -- "

"Wait, your _aunt_ was in on it?!"

"Yes, she was," Becky snapped, obviously not liking the way he was crowding her. "The guy would give her the poems to put in the suggestion box after you went home at night so he wouldn't get caught doing it." She suddenly looked nervous, eyeing him sheepishly as if looking for a reason not to speak. "It, uh, it isn't a problem that it's a 'he' and not a 'she,' right?"

Sam blinked at her stupidly for a moment before her concern even registered. It never occurred to him that it might be a problem.

"No, of course not," he assured quickly. It wasn't as if he had ever dated a guy before, but he was open minded.

Becky visibly relaxed and smiled warmly at him. "Good. I wasn't sure because you never brought it up. . . . "

"So is it Cas, then?"

"Cas?"

"Castiel. Is he the one who's been leaving the poems?"

"Do you want it to be?"

Sam hadn't really thought about it. Well, okay, he had thought about it quite a lot, but he was in a bit of denial about that fact. Before he started striking up conversations on a regular basis, Cas had barely recognised his existence. But that wasn't the question here; Sam himself had noticed Cas quite a bit, and he felt inexorably drawn to him for some reason. He could tell himself it was just curiosity, but who was he kidding? Sam couldn't even fool himself on the matter anymore. He definitely had a thing for Cas.

"Yeah," he said, a bit awestruck at having finally admitted it to himself. "Yeah, I do."

Becky smiled at him, the most genuine and kind smile he had ever seen her wear. "Ding-ding-ding!" she joked, although her tone was gentle. "We have a winner."

If Sam had any doubt left about his feelings towards Castiel, it was crushed the way his heart soared at Becky's words.

"I've gotta talk to him," he said excitedly. "He usually -- "

"He's not coming in today," Becky interrupted, apparently reading Sam's mind. "Finals. But you can always talk to him tomorrow, right?"

"No, I have most of my finals tomorrow." His elation was rapidly sinking. Why did he have to find out about Cas during finals week? Would he have to wait until after Winter break to confront him, or would it be too late by then?

"I'm sorry, Sam," Becky sympathised, and she did look genuinely upset for him. "Maybe you'll luck out and see him on your way to class or something."

"Yeah, maybe," he replied absently, although his hopes weren't high.

He went about his work day half expecting to see Cas anyway, seated at his preferred table, perhaps studying for the rest of his exams. Sam clocked out disappointed.

 

 

**Day 12:**

            On Wednesday, there was no poem left for Sam in the suggestions box. Cas didn’t show up all day, either. Sam was left feeling dejected and, frankly, hopeless. Most students got out for break on Wednesdays; that was just how it had always been, and Sam felt like genuine shit for having left Cas waiting to the very last minute.

He hovered around the edge of the stage seating that night, as usual, but not even the local talent could cheer him up in the slightest.

Until Becky's brother stepped up to the mic and, rather than dismissing the audience, announced that the next performance was very special -- "It's his first time performing for us, and he's pretty nervous, so please be nice." -- and Castiel was left standing in the spotlight. He looked absolutely terrified, was visibly trembling and scanning the crowd as if they were the jury for his death penalty trial. But then his eyes caught Sam's, and Sam stopped breathing for a second. Castiel's eyes were blue, just blue:  Startling and unique, incomparable, and they stared at him as if bypassing all the flesh and sinew and only seeing the very essence of him, and as if what they saw there was the only thing worth looking at in the entire universe. Cas's gaze made Sam feel important and loved and _in love_ , and it was all very overwhelming. That was the first time Cas ever made eye contact with him.

Then he began reading, tearing his eyes away as if it were painful to do so, but necessary to read the poem before him. He was obviously terrified, but his voice was steady and passionate as he recited:  "Come with me, I said, and no one knew / where, or how my pain throbbed, / no carnations or barcaroles for me, / only a wound that love had opened. / I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,  / and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth / or the blood that rose into silence. / O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns! / That is why, when I heard your voice repeat / Come with me, it was as if you had let loose / the grief, the love, the fury of a cork-trapped wine / that geysers flooding from deep in its vault; / in my mouth I felt the taste of fire again, / of blood and carnations, of rock & scald."

When he stopped and looked back up at Sam, he suddenly felt very lightheaded, and not in an entirely pleasant way, but in the going-to-pass-out kind of way. Probably due to the fact that he forgot to breathe while Castiel was reading.

Then the audience began to applaud politely, and whatever trance Sam had been caught in was lifted. Cas was obviously shaky and upset and walked away from the stage as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Sam paused just a moment to blink away the remainder of his stupor before chasing after him.

It wasn't difficult to catch up with Cas; he was trembling terribly, clutching his stomach with one arm and using a wooden post for support with the other and looked like he was about to be sick.

Sam didn't know what to say. _Thank you? You didn't have to do that for me? I love you?_

"Castiel," he began, thinking there was no better way to start.

"Samuel," Cas countered, his voice weak.

"I know you said you weren't much of a performer, but -- "

"I wasn't kidding. I have horrible stage fright."

"I can tell. You know there are easier ways to get my attention."

"The poems obviously weren't enough," he smiled wryly. "I figured I only had one more chance before break. Was I successful?"

Sam just smiled like an idiot and nodded. "Now, are you going to throw up, or can I kiss you?"

**Author's Note:**

> After that, Sam found himself listening to a lot of Tchaikovsky and reading a lot of Milton. And spending a lot of his free time with Cas in the back booths with the rest of the lovestruck students -- where no one asked what happened back there and they never said, but they both ended up leaving with goofy smiles on their faces.


End file.
